


In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith

by Kt_fairy



Series: let the river rush in [17]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, FJ get's all older brother, Family Dynamics, Found Family, Grief/Mourning, Kid Fic, Kinda, M/M, Old Age, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parlour games, scandalous bed sharing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:26:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29806323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/pseuds/Kt_fairy
Summary: Sun's set to rise again. A family found is a family made, even if you end up right back where you started with nothing you thought you'd ever have.ORtwo men and a kid move to the country.Chpt1 - for my Terror bingo 2021 prompt - A melody barely heardChpt2 - for my Terror bingo 2021 prompt - Parlor
Relationships: Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames
Series: let the river rush in [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1458220
Comments: 25
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my head this was less a three chaptered storyline, and instead a story in three parts. Like a mini series within a series.
> 
> I looked as hard as I could for information on James Clarke Ross' children, but could not find anything all that concrete on the names or ages. If, to your knowledge, I have messed anything up, I apologise.
> 
> This is almost finished, and will update as the wind blows me. 
> 
> As always, thank you to Gwerfel for holding my hand, batting down my vagueness, and being a babe.
> 
> Chpt 1 for my Terror bingo 2021 prompt - A melody barely heard

Francis had been banned from reading. Rest was the order of the day, but he had snuck the book from his bedside table anyway. What harm could the Italian renaissance do him anyway, except lull him into frequent dozes with thoughts of warm terracotta earth and sunsets burnishing the elegance of Florence in gold, rather than the reality of the dreary January day outside the half drawn curtains. 

Even out in the clean country air of Hertfordshire, far from the acrid smog of London, the damp weather sat heavily on Francis’ chest. To think he had once lived for years at a time in weather cold enough to freeze your lungs, and now a gloomy English winter was enough to give him a rattling cough. He had felt and fared far worse than this in his time, but he was an old man now, and needed to heed the fragility of his mortal frame that he had not always taken the best care of.

Even if he were to be stubborn and insist a mere cold was nothing to him, there was Daisy’s tight disapproval and James’ soft concern to go up against. And now, of course, there was a third worried countenance, the silent, withdrawn anxiety of a child to persuade him to submit to being given a week’s bed rest by some fatuous country doctor. 

Francis grumbled to himself, coughing with no real force because he was thinking about it, rather than actually needing to. It had all but gone during the night, the cough, but he knew better than to try and get up before he was supposed to; especially when his chest still itched from the stinking mustard plasters he had suffered for the past four days.

Hence his unsanctioned, half-hearted leafing through of his book of renaissance artists - somewhat anachronistically titled _Modern Painters_ , but what did one expect from the likes of John Ruskin. Francis thought it better to have this than sit and brood with nothing more to look at than the pattern on the wallpaper, or the fire crackling in the grate as it tried to cast a merry light about the room. Or James’ brown and white spaniel curled up on the quilt that covered Francis’ legs; the company and warmth appreciated, even if she had only come up here to escape the noise downstairs.

He sighed, slipping off his reading glasses as he turned his head towards the closed door, listening to James’ ever so slightly flat baritone drift up from the drawing room, singing quietly to keep tune while a piano was slowly played. A mistake was made, and Francis smiled when, after a moment of low voices, the sound of young Thomas Ross’ laughter filled the house.

It was not quite a year ago that he had brought Thomas home - or, rather, to this house in Hertfordshire, that was so newly theirs at the time that half of the rooms had not even been unpacked before the rush up to Aylesbury. 

The train ride back had been thick with grief. Neither he nor the boy were inclined to ‘parlour talk’, and with James having travelled on ahead to ensure the house was ready for a child, the conversation in their compartment had petered out after a few miles, leaving only the faint rattle of the door and the huffing din of the engine. Thomas was sitting beside Francis, leaning against his arm as he looked out of the window to the countryside flitting past; what Francis had seen of his expression so like his father’s in his darker moments, tears threatening his hazel eyes that were so like his mother’s. 

All Francis let himself think on for the journey was how to ensure Thomas did not feel alone. Anna and Charlotte, his older sisters, had gone to live with their mother’s sister some time ago, and the oldest brother, James Robert, had his father’s estate to settle and Oxford to attend. Ross had put it in his will for Francis to take charge of his youngest. Had asked him, hand so terrifyingly weak as it clutched Francis’ own…

No. Francis could not think it now. He doubted he ever could. This impossible loss sat on his heart at every moment, and if he gave it time and attention - if he fed it like he used to do all his hurts - then it would crush him.

He reached out to absentmindedly pet the dog’s silken ear, listening as the piano started up again, this time with a reedy, boyish voice singing along with loud abandon.

James and he had moved out to Hertfordshire - to a comfortably sized gentleman’s house from the turn of the century, paid for with James' Whitehall wage and Francis’s Irish rents - for the cleaner air, and to allow the Coninghams to finally, after over a decade of kindness, have their fine London house back. The location had been fortuitous, as it was close to a good school in Watford that Thomas now boarded at four days a week (putting him in the navy, or even the naval college at Gosport was out of the question unless he asked to go, for they would not push such expectations on a child). He was a bright boy, in his way; mathematics did not come easily to him, nor did geography, but he was interested in Francis explaining the natural sciences to him. James kept an eye on his spelling while giving Thomas a head-start on Greek, as well as teaching him how to draw and, currently, play the piano. 

James had been exceptional throughout all of it, but in Francis’ opinion he could never be anything less. He had lost a great many friends over his life - to disease, shipwreck, an executioner’s bullet, the Expedition - and all the parents he had known and never known. It might numb a man, all that death, might make him hard to grief in others. But James was a true heart of oak in the face of Francis grief - which was like a bleeding wound, a barren waste, a loss so deep he thought it might have killed him if James had not been there to haul him back to his feet. 

James knew when to offer them comfort and support, and when to stand firm against Thomas’ angry, disconsolate moods, or Francis’ darker melancholies and fits of tearful temper. Neither of which Francis ever showed the boy; he knew how an adult’s anger echoed through the life of a child, and hoped he might be as comforting a presence in the son’s life as he had been in the father’s.

Thomas was so like Ross sometimes; in his fascinations and expressions, in how he would not let any skill or fact (or argument) go until he had the mastery of it. And in the way he would sometimes search Francis out, standing or sitting close beside him while refusing, with a stubbornness that was so achingly familiar to a once midshipman James Ross, to be upset. At twelve Thomas was too old for coddling, but Ross had always said that Francis was too softhearted, so he would put his arm about him until the gloom had passed. 

The three of them would take long walks in the wooded countryside, at first insisted upon by James to tire out their grief and restless emotions, and then simply for the peace and the very English beauty of the place. The land, rolling like an unsettled sea, had the familiarity of home, but fertile with the possibility of the new - be it new memories or new sights - that had always captivated Francis, and seemed to enliven Thomas. He had yet to met a tree he did not want to climb nor a stream to paddle; returning from playing with the oldest LeVescontes', who lived barely a mile away, with soaked trousers, mud on his face, the stick for his hoop often broken from playing at sword fighting, and with tales of childish hijinx which James always asserted were not as wild as his.

Thomas had not been to play since Francis had taken ill - it was less than a year since his father’s death, it was no surprise if he were to fret - and it was something of a reassurance to hear him having such loud fun now.

Francis removed his glasses as he let his head drop back against the carved headboard, fingers passing slowly through the spaniel’s thick winter fur as he let the familiar, barely heard melody lull him into a doze. The music rising and falling with the pulling rhythm of the sea, swirling through his half formed dreams that were no longer presided over by the looming shadows of icebergs, nor littered with jagged pieces of the pack breaking through the floor, groaning like some great wounded animal. 

Instead, webs of heavy ice laden rigging swayed outside the windows, glinting as if bathed in clear sunshine, neither dangerous nor particularly friendly. The neat room pitched gently like a ship on calm waters, the pale blue striped paper above the wood panelling rippling like waves. Francis - aware that this was a dream but unable or unwilling to influence it - was sitting much as he was on the conscious plane, turning through the pages of a pile of books whose print was only half formed; chunks of texts on magnetism and geography and Antarctica disappearing as he tried to read them.

A thump, thump, thump against his leg caused him to look up, and the sparkling light and the comforting, swaying of his room blinked away, leaving only the dull day behind. The fire lightly shimmered over the pattern on the rug, throwing faint shadows across the bed. 

The dog’s head was raised, long ears twitching while her tail wagged merrily against Francis’ thigh as she looked towards the door. He scrubbed his hand over his face, becoming aware of not so hushed talk from outside his bedroom door as it cracked open. 

He glanced over, and found James’ dear face - handsomely lined, his silver streaked hair finally, mournfully, cut shorter in deference to modern fashion - poking into the room.

“Ah,” he smiled brightly, doing more to dispel the January gloom than all the fire’s valiant efforts. “Good. You’ve been asleep.”

“As ordered,” Francis said, clearing his throat. “I was lulled by fine music that has been my diversion this past hour.”

“I am most pleased that we kept you company,” James’ expression softened as he stepped into the room. “ _And_ to hear that this cough has hopefully abated.”

“As I said it would!”

“Hmm.” James shot him a look as he came to stand by the bed, giving the dog a scratch under the chin in greeting as she was almost wriggling in pleasure at seeing him - a sentiment Francis shared, if not quite the manner it was shown. "You look even better than you did this morning, how do you feel?"

"Tolerable. Old," he shot James a look. "Well enough to be _bored_."

“I have noted that you have acquired a book,” James noted with a glance to the volume that lay face down on Francis’ lap. 

“Even that prat Ruskin is better than being bored,” Francis groused to amuse James, and was rewarded with a gleeful bark of laughter. 

"Well, I am here to help you on that account,” James said lightly, “for it is tea time, and young Master Ross wishes that we might join you, as my company, it seems, will no longer do,” James smiled. “ _If_ you are well enough?”

“I’m well enough to drink tea,” Francis muttered without much bite, tipping his head back to let James run gentle fingers through his hair in order to neaten it. “If I am presentable enough to not cause any further worry.”

“I think it will ease his concerns to see you, and spend time with you. My reports on how you fare have not stopped him fretting more than a boy should these past days - ” James fell silent, palm coming to rest on Francis’ cheek as he gave him a rueful, tight-lipped look. 

James was not untouched by the loss; he had been on friendly terms with both of the Ross’, had even accompanied Francis on a visit to Aston Abbotts on a few occasions, in better times. “ _I feel it too_ ,” James had told him in the numb blur in the aftermath of bright, brilliant, dear James Ross’ passing, “ _I feel it in how you ache.”_ And Francis, who had always let himself be alone in his sorrows, had tried never to forget it.

“He cares for you,” James continued, brushing his hand over Francis’s shoulder to neaten the blue pullover he was wearing over his nightshirt. “As do I. And caring usually entails some fretting. Which I know you stubbornly refuse to accept from others…”

“I don't.”

“I will say something profound,” James stated coolly, "and you will yield.”

"All right," Francis sighed, knowing he was being a bad tempered old man. “I do feel recovered. Besides,” he indicated his legs, neatly covered by the patterned quilt, “- I can hardly overtax myself. I’m laying down.”

James’s eyebrow arched, and Francis reached out with his book to smack him on the thigh.

“I should like to sit and share your company also. For I have missed it, even when you are grumbling.” James told him in a voice that was just above a whisper. He ducked to press his lips to Francis’ forehead, and indulged him with a smile when Francis tipped his head so James would catch his mouth instead. “A daring theft! You _are_ feeling better,” James murmured, waiting for Francis to smile before he straightened, turning smartly on his heels and going to hold the door open. 

Daisy bustled in with the lyrical jangling of the keys hanging from the silver chatelaine pinned to the belt of her plaid dress. She carried a sturdy wooden bed tray laden with tea things and slices of bread and pots of jam as if weighed not a thing, keeping a weather eye on Thomas who was close on her heels. 

His hair, as dark as his mother’s and just as prone to falling into ringlets, had been wet combed into a semblance of order before attending here. The effect was to cast his smooth, pale face with solemn look, aided by his eyes that were wide with boyish concern. They brightened when he saw Francis sitting up in bed, although his fingers were still worrying the last button on his short jacket as he hurried past Daisy to get to Francis’ side.

The sudden activity startled the dog, who trod all over Francis as she leapt to her feet, but the soppy tyke was soon nuzzling Thomas’ face and hands when he leant heavily on the side of the bed.

“How are you, Uncle Frank?” he asked, rubbing the dog’s head between his hands. 

“Very well, thank you, Tom,” Francis said, the face of this youth making him very aware of how pale and worn he felt, and hoped it did not show too much. “Far better for not coughing every moment.”

“Oh. Yes! We - Uncle James and I, could hear,” Thomas said with all the gravity of a medical expert. “It was why I asked to take tea with you.”

“And I am very glad you did.”

Thomas nodded, pleased, as James ordered the dog from he bed with a quick ‘ _Bacchus, off_ ,’ - the spaniel huffing in displeasure at being displaced but obediently thumping down onto the carpet anyway. 

“I also made sure to comment,” Thomas whispered, perching his elbows on the bed so he could lean forward with confidential mischief in his expression, “that bread and honey with my tea always makes me feel better. And so Miss Davies agreed to let us have the last jar.”

“Master Ross is a canny young gentl’man,” Daisy said as she placed the tray down on Francis’ lap. She shot Thomas a look of knowing amusement when she straightened, and Thomas gave her as charming a smile as was possible on a twelve-year old boy, looking almost exactly like his father as he did so.

“Ah, well then,” James stepped neatly into Francis’ silence, flicking his frock coat open so he could tuck his hands into the pockets of his green tartan trousers. “Then we shall share the spoils, and all be fortified.”

"Mind you not tax Sir Francis, now" Daisy warned, casting her pale eye over James and Thomas before looking at Francis. "Nor tax yourself, sir. I have plenty left to make another mustard plaster for your chest if you start coughing again," she threatened, waiting for Francis to murmur his assent before asking, "is there anything else, sirs?"

"No thank you, Miss Davies," James smiled, Daisy bobbing neatly and chucking Thomas fondly under the chin as she went about her business.

The dog hopped up onto the blanket laden trunk at the foot of the bed, chin resting on the footboard to keep an eye on proceedings, and to receive the occasional pet from Thomas who had seated himself on the end of the bed; socked feet crossed under his knees like a sultan, a plate of honeyed bread on his knees and a china cup of warm milk in his hands.

James settled against the headboard on the side of the bed he usually slept in when Thomas was away at school. He was careful to keep his Balmoral boots off the quilt as he lounged, his arm a warm pressure against Francis’s shoulder while he drank his tea and helped Thomas to regale Francis with tales of how they had filled their days. 

It was rather bohemian to pile onto a bed to share tea and talk. Well, it was nothing unusual for James and he, a domestic contentment they shared. But to allow Thomas to sit with them, even if only for high days and holidays, was, as far as Francis knew, a rather unconventional bending of the line between affection and authority that was needed with children.

He had asked, the first time James had allowed the liberty, if it was the done thing. The late summer’s day last year had been all wearying humidity and crowded, delayed trains, causing James to come late home from London in a waspish mood. Thomas, half dressed for bed, had poked his head into James’ room to wish him goodnight, cutting short James’ tirade about civil servants that Francis had been patiently weathering. 

“Oh, come stay a little while Tom,” James had waved the boy in as he hung his frock coat on the back of the chair for the dressing table that Francis was sitting in. “And if you have it in you, repeat what you have told your uncle of your week at school.”

They ended up all sitting against the headboard of James’ bed, Francis having been persuaded to move from his chair to join them, and in hardly any time Thomas was asleep, cheek squashed against Francis’ arm.

“His father always used to chide me for being soft on the boys,” Francis said after a few minutes sat in companionable silence, listening to the tick of the clock and the snuffling of the dog, curled up on its blankets in the corner. “But is this not too - too liberal?”

“This?” James asked, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“Yes,” Francis indicated how they were all sitting. “There are some who do not let a child sit at all in their presence,” he said, thinking of his own father, “ - which you know I do not subscribe to, of course - but, natural fondness for a child, and instilling the respect owed to adults, is a scale I do not know how to balance,” he looked across at James who was watching him with keen, dark eyes. “I am sure I am not the first to wish for a set of Articles on the subject to follow.”

“Indeed,” James agreed after a moment’s silence. “I shouldn’t say ‘too liberal’, as some might say, is a bad thing,” he reached over Thomas to lay his hand on his forearm. “He is still only a child. If we guide him well in life, I do not think he shall become a tearaway from such things as this,” he said simply, as if that answered all Francis’ concerns, and he had never raised it again. 

Francis’ own childhood was far behind him, and it had not been a happy one: drunken rage and the arbitrary discipline of his father swapped for the strict rules of the navy. He did not fear repeating those mistakes with Thomas; he would not betray Ross’ trust so, nor that of the boy he had known for all twelve years of his short life. Yet James’ experience of warm, forward thinking parents who had loved him as their own was reassuring to have at his side.

Especially now, as Francis listened to the chatter going on about him, casting the memory of boredom and illness from his bedroom and making the grey day seem not so dull, he was glad of the direction James bought in such small matters as this. 

“... and I found - or, well,” Thomas sipped his milk, glancing at James in a circumspect manner, “on Tuesday the maid Hilda found the yo-yos - Sally Le Vesconte’s yo-yos - finally.”  
  


“Where did they turn up?” Francis asked, also looking to James who was pulling apart pieces of bread to pop in his mouth.

“The pantry,” Thomas admitted, shoulders sagging, and Francis found himself smiling. 

“I won’t ask how they got there,” Francis said, “but I can guess what you children were doing in the presence of so much cocoa and preserves.”

“I have reminded Thomas that it is best to ask rather than to take, even if it is food from his own house. And sent a note to Mrs Le Vesconte on the subject, along with the toy,” James said firmly, and Thomas looked down at the quilt, abashed.

“Well, now the mystery is solved,” Francis said gently, setting his teacup back in its saucer with a faint clink, “will you be going to play with them tomorrow? If the weather holds?”

“Oh -” Thomas glanced over to the window, his hair already springing from his neat combing, then back to Francis with searching, unsure eyes.

“I am feeling much better,” Francis said gently, holding his gaze until Thomas nodded, then bumped his knee with his foot.

“And looking better already,” James put in, the dog raising her head when James leaned sideways to regard Francis. “The bread and honey seems to be working the trick.”

“And the company,” Francis assured.

“It is frightfully boring to sit on your own when ill,” Thomas said sagely “ even if you have got bread and honey.”

“It is,” Francis agreed. “At least this morning I could hear your playing. You are becoming quite good at piano, Tom,” he said as he sipped his tea, and Thomas tried not to beam at the compliment.

“Although,” Francis continued, casting a look across at James who was all innocence, “I’m not sure if sailors’ songs are very apt for a child to know.”

“I’d know them if I was in the navy!” Thomas protested.

“You are not in the navy,” Francis told him. “You should go and play with the Le Vesconte’s tomorrow. It’s not good to be indoors so long.”

“All right, Uncle,” Thomas agreed, kicking his legs out as he leant back against the footboard, looping his arm around the dog to scratch its side.

“Don’t worry, Tom. I will keep an eye on him,” James said with a wink, reaching over to cut the last half of bread in half again, handing one piece to Francis and the other to Thomas. 

They finished their tea and Thomas, who always liked to have a task set him, volunteered to take the tray down to Daisy. James kept the tea pot and a cup and saucer back to lighten the load, getting up to open the door to let Thomas and the dog out, and waiting until both had safely made it down the stairs before coming to flop down on the pillow beside Francis, sighing greatly.

"Don’t mind me. I am going to laze about for a moment," James huffed, fumbling with his cravat to loosen it a little. "Keeping a boy entertained with no rigging to climb, and cloud too thick for a sextant, is exhausting Francis."

"You have done most valiantly, dear" Francis told him, amused, looking over James’ sprawled limbs, the fan of his lashes on his faintly flushed cheek.

James hummed, neither agreeing or disagreeing, and reached out and to grasp Francis’ fingers. "I am most glad you are better," he said, looking up at Francis with a faint smile as he kissed the back of his hand before tucking it under his chin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are appreciated, and my tumblr is [pianodoesterror](www.pianodoesterror.tumblr.com) if you want to come and say Hi.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a while to get ready because I was determined to finish this fic before I posted this, and then took an age to wrangle. Because James will be verbose.
> 
> A million thank you's to Gwerfel for helping me put my sudden spurts of inspiration in order. 
> 
> for my TerrorBingo prompt - Parlor

  
  


It had started to rain just as the packed train pulled into the station. The drizzle soon turned into a downfall heavy enough to soak the platform and send the smart gentleman returning home from London scurrying for cover. 

“We shall have to wait an age to get a cab,” Henry said as they passed, unhurried, through the wooden side gate, out onto the tree lined road leading the short distance into town across the canal. “The price paid for dallying over lunch, eh?”

James made an agreeing noise, peering past the dripping edge of his umbrella to see the heavy clouds and the last glimmer of daylight out to the east. “Walked further in worse,” he commented, and Henry laughed. 

“Umbrellas are a far more wieldy cargo,” he said, adjusting his so he could slip his arm through James’ as they set off. The musical pitter-patter of rain against their umbrellas was such a pleasant sound that James, tired from a long day of letter writing and meeting with steely eyed armaments manufacturers, did not mind walking through the winding, genteel streets of Berkhamsted.

The town was a lot like Abbots Langley, the nearest village to Rose Hill, where James had spent his youth ; but then Hertfordshire was all much of a muchness in this regard. A Tudor centre giving out to the square elegance of the seventeenth and eighteenth century, then on to more modern architecture as the new terraces expanded slowly outwards thanks to the money generated by empire and industry; creeping close to those larger villas built on the outskirts for the gentlemen of the previous century.

They discussed nothing much in particular as they walked past the church with its grand medieval clock tower and the gothic town hall, before parting ways. Henry darted off uphill towards his comfortable, wonderfully cluttered house while James carried on his way down the poorly lit street; his thoughts all looking forward to putting his tired feet up before the fire and dozing beside Francis as he approached his home. 

Built tall and square, the pale local bricks were covered by a trellis of Wisteria, which was sadly reduced in these winter months. The lamp in the white gabled porch was shining out into the evening to welcome him home, and the bay windows of the parlour were glowing golden as the light from inside spilled out onto the rain soaked lawn. 

He was puzzled to see figures moving about on the other side of the lace-like curtains, and as he crunched up the path towards the front door he could hear the sound of someone playing a raucous, fashionable tune on the piano. The noise increased in volume and was joined by singing voices when the front door opened while he was still a few paces from it. Daisy’s small, robust figure moved to be silhouetted against the gas lit interior with Bacchus fidgeting at her side - wanting to go to James yet too well trained to race headlong into the rain, barking loudly as she went.

“Good evening, Daisy,” James greeted when he reached the porch, shaking the rain from his umbrella before handing it to her, careful not to let it drip on the patterned tile of the hallway. 

“Good evening, sir,” she spoke over the noise as she moved aside to let him into the house. James handed over his hat, gloves, and coat while trying to avoid kicking the dog currently dancing excitedly about his feet as he wiped them on the mat. “Mr and Mrs Coningham, along with Miss Coningham, have come to visit.”

“Oh,” he sighed as hopes of a quiet evening and an early night were soundly dashed. He ran a hand through his hair before gingerly squatting down to make a fuss of Bacchus who was turning this way and that through his hands and trying to lick his face. “I take it from the festive racket that all is well?”

“A walk with the dog and an early supper recovered them all from the journey up from London, sir. Word was received by Sir Francis this morning, and Master Ross has kept everyone entertained,” Daisy said diplomatically as she brushed speck of something from James’ hat, the music coming to an end in the parlour to a round of applause. “Will you be wanting any supper, sir?”

“No thank you. I was most urbane and attended a restaurant this afternoon,” James straightened with a groan of his knees. “I may run upstairs to change my shirt before they notice I am here,” he told her as he brushed down the front of his trousers, giving Daisy a tired smile, “but tea would not go amiss.”

“Of course, sir,” she leaned in conspiratorially, like a favoured aunt offering a treat, “I have kept some cherry cake aside just for you.”

James thanked her as the parlour door was flung open and Will, dressed smartly for dinner, stepped briskly out, his pallid face breaking into a delighted grin when he spotted James.

“Ah! There you are Fitz,” he called as he hurried to meet James in the middle of the hallway, clasping his hands tightly. “Sorry for dropping in like this. Rather last minute plans,” he said, cheeks flushed, blue eyes over bright and smile wide; a merry sight, and James would have thought Will had partaken of more than one glass of claret with his dinner if not for his words coming slightly too fast. “I did telegram ahead to let Crozier know.”

“You can pop in whenever you like. You know that,” James said, narrowing in eyes as he took in the pinched aspect of Will’s face, recognising the restless energy that would sometimes come over his dear brother when a fit of melancholy were on the horizon. “So tell me,” he asked carefully, “are you well?”

“I needed to leave London and all the noise and dirt it entails, but I simply could not face Brighton,” Will explained, flexing the fingers that were still gripping James’ hand tightly. “You know I do not want to be one of those MPs who avoid their constituents, but I could not take the strain of seeing them at this current moment. My heath is feeling rather fragile,” he said in an undertone. “As, in truth, am I.”

“ _Will!_ ” James chided, brotherly concern having him try to usher Will back towards the parlour. “Then why are you standing about in this draughty hallway? And why all this noise, you should be resting!”

“Oh, don’t fuss like an old hen,” Will huffed. “I will be fine.”

“You have said that you are under the weather. If you are feeling the strain - ”

“Being with _family_ shall never be a strain to me, James. I have barely seen any of you since Christmas. I came because I missed you, not to be fretted at like an invalid,” Will told him firmly; neatly parrying James’ concern as only a brother could, knowing full well that James would never argue on matters of family.

That he would be cast out from the Coningham’s affections just as he had been cast out of his father’s house was a fear that lingered from his childhood. James had been but a youth when he first realised the insecurity that came with his place in the world, and how dependent he was on the kindness of others. This fear clung on with sharp, jagged nails as he grew, convincing him to strive so as not to be a disappointment to his parents, to substitute glory for all he lacked as a man and be worthy of their kindness and affections. 

James looked down at Bacchus who was waiting patiently at his side, then back to Will, hoping that his expression made it clear they would speak again tomorrow as he motioned for him to lead the way into the parlour. “Very well then,” he sighed, glancing at himself in the hallway mirror as he neatened his hair and his collar, “if Elizabeth is not concerned, then I shall not be.”

“Oh that’s very nice,” Will said over his shoulder.

“If you will call me an old hen,” James shot back. He set his shoulders so they would not show how tired he felt, and stepped into the warm, bubbling atmosphere of he parlour.

“Oh, James!” Elizabeth called, the firelight catching in her grey hair as she twisted to smile at him over the back of her seat. “There you are, my dear,” she held her hand out to James who crossed the room to take it. “Sir Francis said you were most likely delayed by walking from the train station, rain or no,” she said fondly, fixing him with her direct gaze as she squeezed his fingers. “I should have scolded you for it if you had come in with a chill.”

“It is good to stretch one’s legs after a day at a desk, especially ones as long as mine,” James said as he bent to kiss her cheek. “It is good to see you, Elizabeth.”

He let go of Elizabeth’s hand as he straightened, his eyes moving over to Francis. He was sitting in his usual place on the plush red settee by the fire, looking only slightly uncomfortable in his informal dinner suit but content enough in company and pleased to see James, as he always was. James made sure his smile was not too warm; hoping that his expression did not show how dearly he would like for them to be alone in the house tonight. How James wanted nothing more than to curl up beside Francis, or throw his stockinged feet into Francis’ lap with a rustle of his cotton day dress, and fall asleep while reading the naval gazette. 

Francis’ expression was gentle, like he knew James' thoughts, and James let his eyes slide to his niece who was seated beside Francis. Lizzie looked pale and pretty, alarming James, as always, that the small child who once played at his feet had become such a poised young lady.

"I commented that we may have to send out yet another search party to bring you back," she said to him, all sly amusement and too pink cheeks as James stepped about her mother’s chair to get to her. "Only uncle Francis laughed."

"I do not know where you picked up such an unladylike sense of humour," James teased, having to edge around to the end of the settee in order to reach her over the span of her fashionably voluminous blue silk skirts to kiss her cheek.

“Jenny Beecham, who you do not know, says my manner is forever marked by associating with sailors,” Lizzie declared when James straightened. “And I told her that I should rather be forever marked than be forever dull!”

“You are certainly never dull, Lizzie dear,” James said, and Will barked a laugh from where he was perched on the arm of his wife’s chair.

“I shall not hear anything disparaging against you, not knowing the boors my brother associates with at Eton,” she told James, then declared, “every sailor I have met has been a perfect gentleman and most agreeable.”

“You most likely half startle the lads, and rightly so,” Francis said, and Lizzie looked pleased to hear it. “You’d have terrified me,” he added conspiratorially and she laughed, reaching over to press his arm lightly.

“Well, you would hardly stand for anything else,” James agreed, thinking of the waiting room of preening, newly minted lieutenants his niece had left reeling the last time she had accompanied him to the Admiralty.

He turned next to Thomas who straightened from his boyish leaning against the back of the settee, stepping closer to James when he spoke to him. “How was your week at school, Master Ross?”

“Very well, uncle. My latin composition was commended, and I came second in the cross country run with the boys in the form above.”

“Good man,” James patted his shoulder, then pushed his escaped ringlets from his forehead. “I heard the piano while walking up, it sounded very fine.”

“Miss Coningham played with me,” Thomas told him, face lighting up proudly, then looked a little bashful when Elizabeth complimented him.

“Most fine, and his company very agreeable,” she assured, and Will agreed with a ‘ _hear hear’._

“Thomas has been very helpful this evening,” Francis told James, “to myself and our guests.”

“Most attentive,” Lizzie smiled gently at Thomas, who blushed, then she turned back to the room, sitting up straight and folding her dainty hands in her lap. “Now that uncle Fitz is here,” she pronounced brightly, “we must have a parlour game or two!”

The Minister’s Cat was decided on first, much to Francis’ displeasure, and he started them off with a gruff, “the minister's cat is an abominable cat.”

“A barbarous cat,” James followed from where he had taken up post leaning on the edge of the mantelpiece, Bacchus laying before the fire at his feet.

“A callous cat,” said Lizzie.

“A devil of a cat,” was Thomas’ offer, which caused much debate before it was allowed. 

“An enviable cat,” from Elizabeth. 

“A foolish cat,” from Will, who had began to pace behind his wife’s chair.

“A grotesque cat” from Francis again. 

And so followed for several rounds until James and Lizzie were the last two left, as usual, and mercy was called for by all as they made their way through two rounds rapid fire - _An uxorious cat. An vituperative cat. A waggish cat_ \- Thomas laughing in delight as their words became more extravagant.

Consequences came next - “in which each player writes a sentence upon their paper,” Thomas explained to everyone. “Folds it to hide the text, then passes to another who adds to it in the same fashion until a ripping story - that is to say an amusing, nonsense story has been created.”

James declared himself as economical as Mrs Beaton when he handed out old envelopes rather than sacrifice good paper to the game, Francis raising a brow with his own economy of expression while Elizabeth let out a ‘ _ha’._

“As demonstrated by all those fine mother of pearl buttons on your Indian silk waistcoat,” she corrected, casting her eye over the dark yellow article that was rather expensive, yes. 

“Prudence with the paper allows for the buttons,” James defended himself, smiling when Francis laughed aloud at that. 

“Now that is what the navy teaches you,” Francis said as he passed an envelope to Will, who had stopped his restless pacing at a look from his wife, and moved to sit on a stool before the fire.

“My word!” he declared, holding up the envelope to squint at it, “this one’s from Mr Dickens!” 

Thomas set himself up on the arm of settee beside Lizzie, his polished shoes catching the firelight as he swung those rangy legs he was yet to grow into. Lizzie’s pale blue eyes crinkled with sisterly mischief when Thomas leaned in to whisper into her ear, his tongue poked out between his teeth whenever he wrote something down. They were colluding more than they should in what to write, but no-one here would ruin a boy’s fun by insisting upon strict rules; it was too heartening a sight to see the poor boy so carefree, as any child should be while playing games.

It would not do to expect stoic fortitude from a twelve year old boy, that would only mar the man he could become. James had lost his parents while an adult, and sometimes he felt cut loose in a wild sea without their presence. Children were resilient if given patience and the proper care, and it pleased James whenever he saw Thomas truly happy as he was now. For the boy’s sake of course, but also because the responsibility of doing right by the child of a friend - and what friends the Ross’ had been to Francis - was indeed a considerable one. 

They played Consequences for an hour or so. James had to fish out his glasses when Will handed him all the disjointed stories so he could read them out; turning them into grand tales to make all applaud, or silly little asides to bring laughter.

Even Daisy was invited to join for a round when she came in with tea. Francis gave up his seat to her, and then, dear man that he was, took his time with his answers so that she had no cause to be embarrassed by her slow, careful handwriting.

She could read well and wrote very neatly, having learned her letters under Elizabeth’s direction as she had come to the Coningham’s very young. James could just remember her from the year or so he had lived with them before sailing North - a small, freckled girl darting from rooms and along passageways when she laid her eyes on him. (“I was so afraid of you. How worldly and grand you were, sir. Like a picture in a book. And me but a girl,” she had told him once. “But I know better now,” she added on, smiling when James had laughed.)

The clocks in the hallway chimed half past nine just before the ones in the parlour, and this brought the games to a close. Daisy took her leave, and Lizzie rearranged her expansive skirts without a care for creases so that James could finally take a seat, Thomas squeezing in between he and Francis.

“When I awoke this morning in dreary old London, I did not think I would be having such a congenial evening,” Lizzie said to her parents, who murmured in agreement.

“Most lively. Especially for Master Ross, after a week at school,” Elizabeth said kindly to Thomas, who nodded. “Although I am sure this house is never lacking in guests.”

“Indeed not,” Francis, who had never taken to small talk, informed her. “There is always someone coming or going.”

“The Charlewood's visit when in the area, as do those from the expedition - Mr Blanky, who you have met, and his lady wife especially.” James put in as he crossed his legs. “I suppose they think we must be bored out here in the country.” 

“They think _you_ are bored,” Francis said, already looking at James when he glanced over at him. 

“I hard ever have the chance to be, with all the people dropping in,” James stated maybe a bit too bluntly, as he was feeling the length of the day, and before he could soften any unintentional sting that his family might feel, Francis spoke.

“The Le Vescontes' are nearby of course, and keep us well entertained,” he said, to a knowing murmur of amusement from their guests. James smiled to himself, thinking what an exhausting, exhilarating experience it was being in a room with all the bright and varying characters of the Le Vesconte’s brood before they were sent trooping off to bed.

Henry and Charlotte had been indispensable through all this, for what did Francis or James know of caring long term for a child. What did they know of schools! Francis had last been in a school room at thirteen, and James had only ever had tutor’s when at home. Henry, who had been at school a while before joining the navy, was happy to dispense advice and opinions, and lend a fatherly ear to Thomas about prefects or sports teams (once consulting on if a pot of jam was a fair swap for a guinea pig) that were beyond the boy’s guardians.

It was times such as those, small and yet full of Henry's dependable, easy nature, that made James think of what Francis had lost in James Ross. For what on earth would he do without Dundy?

_That_ was not a thought for any moment, let alone an evening such as this, and James adjusted his posture as he spoke.

"We are also kept entertained by visits from Royal Society members, who come to speak with our own eminent Sir Francis Crozier,” James added, as Francis was never forthcoming about such things, throwing his arm out over the back of the settee to touch his fingers to Francis’ shoulders when he spotted the blush on his cheeks.

“We are always glad of company,” Francis said quickly, before anyone could make polite conversation about the awards for meteorology and magnetism that had been recently voted to him by French and Italian academies of science. “But we are more than content with our own. And Thomas, of course,” he said to the boy, who nodded blearily. 

He was a splendid child. Prone to pinching food and trailing mud all over the place, as was usual for boys, and had days where his Ross bullishness would rear its head and no peace would be had. But he had a congenial nature and a gentleness to him, and would happily sit quietly with them of an evening while he tinkered with the model ships he would sail on the fish ponds with the junior Henry Le Vesconte; or slouch in his chair reading his books, sitting up to read out the passages that made him laugh. 

He had slotted into their life with an ease that surprised some, although James did not know why. The boy had moved from one country life to another, and sailors were, by nature, unsettled in their ways and experts at change; how else had James been able to return to Rose Hill at fifteen after three intrepid, thrilling years at sea and settle back into that quiet studious house. 

Will was watching James from his stool before the fire, his expression reflective as he stretched his legs out before him on the rug, his anxiousness seemingly quietened if not for the jiggling of his right foot. “We were very content in our own company at home - at Rose Hill, which is a summer day of a memory to me. Grandmama always liked to laugh, and nanny knew how to spin a good yarn. And mother and father were fine conversation of course. But when Fitz was home from sea, oh - it was as if the whole house startled awake,” he smiled so fondly, leg finally ceasing its fidgeting, and James felt the usual ache in his chest to hear how much he had been missed. “He was no guest, of course, but on his fêted returns from sea his presence always brought great excitement, and all felt more like a home for it.”

“Settled life needs enlivening every so often, no matter how contented,” Lizzie put in as she fussed over the dog, whose tail was thumping merrily against the floor. 

“Indeed,” Will nodded to his daughter, looking about to get to his restless feet but managing to stay put, “and my far flung brother has always been most enlivening.”

"Now - " James began, even thought he did not know what to say. Will meant this in good grace, in familial fondness, but that ache had settled low in James’ gut and felt almost like guilt.

All that time James had spent at away at sea, forcing Will to bury their parents and stand at the altar without him, then sailing off into the Arctic after Will had asked him to stay - pleaded with him not to go. And yet Will still cared for him, turned to him when in need, still called James brother. Would sit before his hearth fire speaking so kindly of him that one might think James was worthy of it.

“It is James’ habit to enliven all situations,“for better or worse.” Francis said with his typical earnestness, filling the silence James had left. And James made a show of sighing as he scooted forward to perch on the edge of the settee.

_“Now_. You are becoming sentimental before the ladies,” he told them both. “I think it is time to retire for the evening.”

The rustle of skirts and groans as old joints were forced to move filled the room as they all rose. The ladies departed first with Thomas, who had to be nudged into action as the poor boy was almost asleep; and after five minutes listening to Will and Francis prattle on about the bloody pre-raphaelite brotherhood, James too had to be shaken from his doze to go up to bed. 

Lizzie had been given the airy guest room, while William and Elizabeth were loaned James’ spacious room at the front of the house, and that left James having to suffer the _great_ _hardship_ of having to bunk in with Francis.

Daisy had already set everything James might need on the dressing table by the window, and he and Francis moved around one another the comfortable ease. They had met almost eighteen years ago now, James thought as he set his cufflinks aside and pulled off his cravat, and those first few years of animosity between them was like a speck on the horizon, almost out of sight. 

He turned to share the thought with Francis as he unbuttoned his waistcoat, losing the train of thought when he found Francis sitting on the end of the bed with his collar in a disorder and his braces slipped from his shoulders, his face slightly pink from having bent to take his shoes off. Hardly an extraordinary sight, nor one to inflame a desperate passion, but they would have become bored of one another a good while ago if their everyday selves had not been more than enough for the other.

James reached out to let his fingers smooth over Francis’ back as he passed by to get to the wash stand, the linen of his shirt smooth and as warm as his skin, and Francis slanted him a look, blue eyes bright beneath his quirked brow. 

Robert Coningham, James’ uncle, had always said of his aunt that she had not changed from the first moment he had set eyes on her. That his Louisa had only revealed more of her intelligence, her gentleness, and her beauty as the years passed. James had always known it to be a fine sentiment, one worthy of the romantic poets of his youth; yet, James pondered as he washed London from his face, he understood it better now. He knew the ways Francis had changed over the years, some drastic and some gradual, as he became more _himself_ , and so became more of the things James loved (and despaired of).

James hauled his shirt off over his head, and threw a glance at himself in Francis’ mirror before pulling on his nightshirt. He took in his mussed hair that would soon be entirely grey, and the planes of his face that bordered on shadow, thrown into relief by the flickering light of the candles by the bed. The physical changes were neither here nor there - he had counted each one a gift even before the second China war had nearly succeeded where the Arctic had failed. It was those changes inside of him, of his view of himself and the world in which he was forced to exist; those he could look back on and trace the winding path that had brought him here.

Some time last year, in the border between the dryness of summer and the fading beauty of autumn, he had traced the same path while out for a walk with Henry. Thomas and the four eldest of Henry’s children were skipping along the country lane ahead of them, slipping in and out of the trees or hurling sticks for the dogs to race after while yipping in delight.

“So,” Henry had said, swinging his cane up to rest upon his shoulder. “We have been chased from the sea much like old Odysseus, and the life of a country gent has come to us both, old boy.”

“I knew you would be off out of the city and into the country soon as you were able,” James said, turning his face to feel the warmth of the sunlight dappling through the trees. “You were made for green fields and a comfortable hearth, Henry.”

Henry smiled, attention momentarily drawn to the wild laughter of his daughters before he looked back to James. “Well, I had never imagined you to exist outside of London or a busy port in some part of the world.”

“No,” James agreed, letting the end of his cane brush against the uneven surface of the road. “I had not thought - or rather, I had not realised that I have become someone who is happy away from the activity and bustle and _opportunities_ of those places.”

“You, sir, have been domesticated,” Henry pronounced, laughing at the look James gave him.

“How dare you, sir,” James said, all false indignance.

“You have sir!” Henry shot back, letting his next stride bump him into James’ arm. “Not to sound like a fussing aunt, but the addition of a child… that is, I think Master Ross has added to - ” he huffed, and let his cane drop from his shoulder. “The _domestic comfort_ of living with another will tame even you, Fitzjames.”

“Maybe,” James agreed, knocking his hat so it sat upon the back of his head.

“Or we have simply become old men,” Henry shrugged.

“We have acquired jobs. That require desks! And nice Whitehall offices.”

“Horrid of us. Never though I’d see the day,” Henry harrumphed. “At least we are still focused on the task of blowing things up.”

Thoughtful silence descended for a few paces before James found himself saying. “I have been allowed the - and I do not mean this to offend our friendship, Dundy.”

“Of course,” Henry said, head tilted to James to better listen to him.

“I have been shown the understanding to be the sort of man who is happy in a house in the quiet country,” James said slowly, the thought not yet fully formed, “and with only past glories to his name.”

He glanced at Henry, who was looking at James as if he had said something very obvious. “I am pleased to hear it,” he said quietly, which had meant more to James than he thought it could.

It was then that little Charlotte, dark hair streaming behind her, came sprinting towards them. Her hands and face and brown smock were stained purple with smears of blackberries from one of the bushes along the lane, and conversation had turned to how best to hide such a mess from her mother.

James smiled at the memory as he set his trousers atop his waistcoat, collecting his tortoiseshell hair brush as he went to sit at Francis’ dressing table. Brushing his hair was a vanity, especially now he kept it short, but the repetitive motions allowed his mind to slow, if not clear, and he let his eyes follow Francis’ reflection in the mirror as he pottered about the room; complaining about his joints to the ever attentive Bacchus who cocked her head this way and that, ears lifting as she tried to parse what was being said to her.

All James’ life he had wanted to fit somewhere. Rose Hill had been a gentle, loving home, but it was not a place constructed for the likes of him. He stood out too much for his precarious secrets, and his memories were tinged by worries of being discovered for a half-english bastard, and then for all the feelings and wants he should not have. The navy had given him comfort in the masses, to hide all those unsightly bits of himself by being one of many, and James had relished the feeling that came from standing out in so dense a crowd of young men.

After all that striving, his eyes set on an unknown goal that would finally let him fit into the world and into his own skin, it had finally come in the form of that gentle, loving life that he had always run from.

“I never had the chance to ask how your day was?” Francis asked from the bed, the end of the sentence becoming half lost in a stifled yawn, and broke James from his reverie.

“Reports from the military observers in the United States are going around Whitehall,” James paused in brushing his hair, letting the handle tap against the polished top of the dressing table. “It is a nasty business. Civil wars - so said Dundy with his usual perspicacity - are the least civil of all things,” he shook his head, and set the brush down. “It is a bad affair all around, Francis.”

“All war is a bad business,” Francis said as he gave James’ pillow a thump to fluff it. “I am doubly glad that William and his family dropped in, to take your mind off all that.”

James hummed in agreement as he clambered into bed, letting the covers pool about his feet as he drew legs up, hands on his knees. “Yes his company is always a fine thing - and I am always glad to see Lizzie. Even if all I wanted to do was doze off before the fire.”  
  


“I could tell,” Francis said gently. “But you were on fine form regardless.”

“I do not like to show Will anything but a happy countenance when he is in one of these unsettled moods,” James sighed, wishing to curl up to sleep but knowing should speak of what had caused his earlier tinge of guilt. “Not after I have left him alone with it so many times.”

Francis frowned, “what has brought this on?”

“A long day,” James shrugged, propping his head up on his hand so he could look at Francis. “When Will spoke of my coming home when we were young. You miss so much in the navy, but you are having either a grand time or a terrible time and so it does not really notice. I had no good reason for wanting to be away so badly -”

“ _James_ ”

“- but I have ended up happiest at almost the point where I started…”

“If older and wiser, and with lumps taken out of you,” Francis lay his hand on James’ arm. “You lived the life you had to at the time. It’s all that can be done. And not many can say it ended up happily.”

James nodded when Francis squeezed his arm. He felt ridiculous for still needing Francis’ earnest, honest words when he was almost fifty, especially over the acts of his younger, foolish self. But if he said so Francis would smile and say he might as well be good for something, and then tell James he was tired and becoming maudlin, which was very true.

“Besides,” Francis continued, "Will is not a man to tend such hurts when it comes to family. I am sure that he is more glad that you are whole, and in one place that is well within reach, than anything."

“You're right,” James let his gaze drift out of focus, rubbing at his left eye when it twinged. “I could have run off to America.”

Francis pulled a face at the very idea, a dry smile beginning to pull at his mouth when James leaned over to kiss him.

“Goodnight,” Francis murmured, watching as James shuffled gracelessly beneath the covers before turning to pinch out the candle. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been shown a family tree of the Ross kids (thanks to [Solomontoaster](https://solomontoaster.tumblr.com/) on tumblr) from the Polar Pioneers - which isn't definitive despite the author's best efforts - but Thomas is on it. I've found him in two places so I can rest easy before the Ross experts. Dimmons did worse crimes. 
> 
> Swapping jam of a guinea pig is something I saw in an old black and white film on the TV one day, and i've been waiting to use it for something. 
> 
> I have been to Berkhamsted many times, as people I know keep moving there, and it is as delightful as Fitzier deserve.


End file.
